Sleek, gunmetal night; that’s you. Glossy on the surface like swank clubs with flashing lights, thumping bass and neon shots of booze, but you’re just a little more dangerous than that, aren’t you? And a bit more exciting if we’re being honest here. For all your flash, all that bravado, what lies beneath is something sharper and more calculating than any other 20-something socialite could ever hope to compete with. You’re the dark corners, harboring ecstasy and sex and glowing cigarettes so near to where everyone is laughing and living. You can fit in so well with them, when you dance and the sweat slips down the side of your neck. Part of me thinks there really is nothing deadly about you. I’m safe with you.
Maybe I’m not, though. The night likes its secrets.
You, yourself, live life on airs of easy elegance, careless and fashionable, drawing everyone around you in like honey does an insect. Inexorably, irresistibly. The flashy car helps, black and glittering and sumptuous in the back, leather supple against skin and drinks at hand. Or the Spyder, top-down, yourself being the only one you trust to touch the wheel, but loving to take a passenger along for the ride. Blacked-out windows. Bass heavy. Diamond cufflinks winking at your wrists. Expensive bar rooms and nights out play a part, just like the luxe hotel rooms afterwards. You’re known to everyone, everywhere you go on the fast paced party circuit, and if you’re not they know your name before you leave. You're too vain to remain anonymous.
Clubbing with you is like a divine revelation. Every club knows your face, your credit card, and backrooms open up to you like an oyster revealing its pearl. Your language is beautiful, and you yourself have a gorgeous voice, and it’s a lethal combination. I’ve never been easy, but when it comes to you it doesn’t take much to get me into bed. Sometimes just a few well-whispered words. Maybe a touch of your lips for good measure.
A beckon of either a jerk of your head or a crook of your finger is all it takes to get a girl or a man in the back of your car and it’s off to one of those hotel rooms that, even were you to not have a reservation, would have found lush, posh quarters for you and your guest(s). Jacuzzi bubbling, iced champagne in a bucket, lights dimmed and the balcony door thrown open wide as the post-midnight air of Seoul whispers in and cools heated flesh flushed with top shelf vodka. Silken bed sheets. Silkier skin.
We’re young, we really are, and the way we fly through the night could make one think we're immortal as well. We're everything of the world, I try explaining to you as I stumble out of my stilettos, its sex and cities and taboos all embodied by you and the kohl smudged under your eyes, making you look all the more exotic and mysterious. And the nights are so wild and beautiful that my soul just aches, I whisper into your shoulder as though confessing sins to a priest. Then you take my face in your artist's hands, and any hope of saving myself vanishes. Oh, how you've ruined me and how we've both loved it.
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You reach for your first cup of coffee, hair mussed and half-smiling with eyes not fully masted, and God, you’re beautiful like that.
I try to stop myself from worshiping you, your quicksilver sarcasm and alpine cheekbones and golden skin still warm with sleep, your tattoos stark black and flowing perfectly with the contours of your lean body. But I'm enthralled, and I know that you're going to utterly destroy me. That's why storms are named after people.
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